


Andante

by imafriendlydalek



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, M/M, Musician Tony, Oblivious Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 18:09:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14920334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imafriendlydalek/pseuds/imafriendlydalek
Summary: Life has a funny way of picking you up when you're down, and Steve was pretty darn far down. Until a chance encounter leads him to the Carbonell Arts Center and its enigmatic founder, renowned violinist Tony Stark.





	Andante

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Milchtee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milchtee/gifts).



> I told myself I wasn't going to do any more fan events. But then I saw FlowerAlec's GORGEOUS art and just couldn't let it go! (the art will be added shortly!)  
> I know nothing about classical music, so a huge shoutout goes to the awesome people in the Stony Discord server and orbingarrow for their advise and cheerreading!

At least it was warm. 

Maybe a little too warm, but this would have sucked a hundred percent more if it had been cold. Or raining.

It was muggy, like always in late June. The city smelled a little like trash and too many people crammed into one place, his clothes clung to his body in the humidity, but at least it was warm as Steve Rogers wandered the streets of Manhattan.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he thought as he passed the building where they’d lived before his dad had left.

He was supposed to be moving his belongings (few as they were) into his new room in the apartment he was supposed to be sharing with a guy called Leon. But Leon had never showed and hadn’t answered any of Steve’s calls or texts, so there Steve was, without a home.

 _Homeless_ sounded so destitute, so final. Steve pushed the thought down. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a place to go. He could call up Sam, after all, and of course Bucky and Nat, but Sam’s daughter had just been born and Bucky and Nat had only just moved in together, so he really didn’t want to be in their way.

He was fine. It would be fine. He’d already sent messages to loads of people looking for roommates. Someone was bound to get back to him, maybe even tomorrow. He could shower at the gym where he worked a few nights a week, and if it _did_ start raining, he could maybe spend the night there in a pinch.

But that was a last resort option, and probably moot since he was sure to have found something by tomorrow. So for now, he was just going to enjoy this wonderful evening in New York City.

This was it, after all - the _dream_. The Big Apple. The City That Never Sleeps. The stuff dreams are made of. This was where all the aspiring artists flocked, with grand dreams of breaking through, of being discovered by one of the big art dealers, of glamorous shows in glitzy galleries and of _making it_.

It had always been home to Steve, and he could do without the fancy opening galas. But that was all he wanted - to make a living from his art.

And right about now, maybe also a cheeseburger.

***

There’s only so long they’ll let you sit at one of the tables at the cafe outside Grand Central while you sketch the statue atop the station and nurse the same cup of coffee before they not-so-subtly encourage you to move it along, buddy.

Steve gathered his pad and his pencil with a resigned sigh, carefully counting out his change to cover the cost of the coffee.

On to the next spot, then. 

At least Central Park was free.

He took his favorite path, the one that leads through the Brambles, over the gorgeous wrought-iron bridge, past the spot where he’d kissed a guy in public for the first time. He waved hello to Balto and stopped to sketch a few kids trying to climb on the statue of the heroicized Husky before crossing over to head up the Mall. 

The noises of the city had started to fade, replaced by the murmurs of conversation and the chirping of the birds that hopped around the plaza hoping to nab a few crumbs. The heat of the day was starting to let up, finally. Steve checked his phone - just before seven. The Met would be open for two more hours; maybe he should head there, pay his favorite paintings a visit.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite brooding artist.” 

Steve had been sketching the birds when a familiar voice spoke. He looked up to see Loki Odinsson standing over him, an enigmatic grin on his face. 

“Loki,” Steve stated by way of greeting. He’d never quite been able to decide if he liked the guy or hated him - his opinion seemed to swing around each time he saw him. Their paths crossed often enough, with Loki in the same dance troupe as Natasha and Loki’s brother Thor one of the owner-operators of Steve’s gym. 

“Delighted to see you as well, Rogers,” Loki chuckled.

“Sorry, I, uh, you caught me by surprise.”

“Yes, I can see that. I’m a bit surprised to be here myself, I must admit.” Steve raised a questioning eyebrow, so Loki continued. “I was meant to rendez-vous with a step dancer, but it appears I am being stood up. An unaccustomed feeling. Any chance you’d care to join me for dinner in their stead?”

Steve swallowed a laugh. As much as he on-again-off-again liked Loki and as hungry as he was, he didn’t think that was advisable. “Some other time, maybe? I, um, I was going to go see the new exhibit at the Met.”

“Ah, ‘tis a fine show. I saw it yesterday on my way to the open house at the Carbonell Arts Center. Surprised I didn’t see you there, actually.”

“First I’m hearing of it.”

Steve eyed Loki carefully. He wouldn’t put it past Odinsson to talk up an event if he knew Steve hadn’t been there, and that seemed like the kind of event Steve would have heard about through one of his contacts in the arts. Natasha, for starters. There was enough talk about the Carbonell Arts Center these days after all - beyond the media attention surrounding its well-known founder, there was also the general hum of excitement in the arts community. A center like that could present a lot of opportunities for people like Steve, Nat and Loki.

“Shame,” Loki said, an air of disinterest in his voice. “Well, I’d better be off. No sense in wasting the evening waiting around. See you around, Rogers.”

“See ya, Loki,” Steve acknowledged with a nod as Loki turned, his long coat billowing behind him as he retreated.

Steve watched the birds for a few more moments, considering Loki’s words. Well, it wasn’t much use dwelling on it - it was in the past, whatever it was. He sighed as he gathered up his bag and tucked his sketchbook under his arm.

And yet, for all his resolve not to let Loki get to him, Steve found himself standing on the corner of Fifth Avenue, looking through bars of the high wrought-iron fence that ringed the Beaux-Arts mansion formerly referred to as the Stark Mansion. In a much-discussed move, it was now known as Carbonell Arts Center.

Traffic rushed past, a police car siren shrilled in the distance, but despite the cacophony of Manhattan, a few notes of soft violin music floated through. There was a melancholy to it, a forlorn feeling that settled in Steve’s empty stomach as he was suddenly reminded of his housing predicament. Of all the mis-steps along the way that had led him here, homeless and broke, wandering the streets to pass the night.

“Shit,” he muttered, and dropped his bag onto the sidewalk. Suddenly the Met felt so far away, and all Steve wanted to do was stay, and listen. So he did. There was a bit of a ledge formed by the wall around the property, just wide enough for Steve to perch himself on it. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but he’d had worse.

Steve hadn’t realized he’d lost himself in the music until it stopped abruptly.

“Concert’s next week,” a voice spoke from behind the fence.

Steve jumped to his feet. “Sorry!” he shot out. “I was just - the music, it sounded so nice. Just listening in. Sorry!”

There was a soft chuckle and a face appeared through the rose bushes. Tony Stark. 

Steve had seen it on plenty of magazine covers, blog posts, even that one infamous Tonight Show interview to recognize him. The _wunderkind_ of the modern classical music scene, the next Itzak Perlman or whoever, who’d shunned a promising career - and his father’s considerable fortune - in engineering to follow in the footsteps of his mother, renowned pianist Maria Carbonell Stark. It was in her memory that Stark had now opened a school of the arts in his father’s mansion, in a move seen by many as a “fuck you” to his old man.

“Hi,” Steve eeked out, his voice faltering at the surprise appearance of such a prominent figure. Not that he should really be surprised - _violin music coming from the home of Tony Stark, hardly takes a genius to figure that out, Rogers…_ the sardonic voice in his head pointed out.

A smile tugged at the corners of Stark’s mouth. “Hi.” 

Stark’s gaze trailed down and he seemed to consider Steve for a moment. Steve was suddenly painfully aware of his appearance - of course he was wearing his oldest pair of jeans, hadn’t had a haircut in a while. Could use a shave. He clutched his sketchbook a little tighter to his chest in the hopes of covering up that coffee stain and tried to step in front of his bag so Stark wouldn’t see it and pin him for a homeless vagrant (which, to be fair, Steve kind of was).

“Hi yourself. You an artist?”

“I am,” Steve replied, probably a little too loudly. “It’s great, what you’re doing here. I, uh, a friend of mine told me you had an open house yesterday. At the center. I meant to go, I mean, I would have, if I had known about it. Before.”

Stark was laughing, a rumbling chuckle that eased Steve’s nerves despite the fact that _Tony Stark was laughing at him_. He’d really never been much good at talking to attractive people.

“Let me guess, Loki Odinsson?”

Steve raised an eyebrow. Hesitantly, he confirmed, “Yes?”

Stark let out another hearty laugh, shaking his head in seeming disbelief as he straightened again. “Oh man. Odinsson. What a guy.”

Well, there was certainly nothing to argue with that statement. It seemed everyone who met Loki either loved the guy or hated him (or, like Steve, both).

Stark seemed to consider Steve for a moment before he stepped back, out of his rose bushes, and gestured to his right. “There was no open house, not yesterday, not for another few weeks, probably. But, if you want to come in and have a look at the place, there’s a gate around the side. Things aren’t quite finished getting set up yet, but you get the idea.”

 _This evening has taken an unexpected turn,_ Steve thought as he gathered up his bag and headed toward the gate Tony had mentioned so that he could enter the prestigious new arts center, set up and run by the world’s preeminent violinist.

He’d known on an academic level that the Carbonell Arts Center was in the Stark Mansion, built by Walter Stark, the founder of Stark Industries and Tony’s grandfather. He’d known on an academic level that it was one of the prime remaining examples of Beaux-Arts architecture in New York City - he’d learned this years ago in one of his art history classes.

He’d also known that the Starks were some of the richest people in Manhattan (an impressive feat on an island that seems to draw in the overly wealthy), even after Tony’s much-reported decision to pass the reins of the company to its Chief Operating Officer, Pepper Potts, rather than take over himself.

None of that prepared Steve for the moment he stood at the front door of Stark Mansion, when Tony pulled open the door with a half-smile and gestured for Steve to come in. 

Overwhelming. That was the most fitting way to describe it. The idea that actual people had _lived_ in this space - Steve had seen buildings like this, but they were museums or office buildings, not living spaces. He couldn’t imagine actually living in a place like this, not with the voice at the back of his head that screamed _don’t touch anything! Where are your archival gloves?!_

Steve looked down at his shoes, suddenly very concerned about how much dirt he might track in on the gleaming white marble tiles. There wasn’t even a floor mat for him to wipe them off on.

Tony must have caught on, since he rolled his eyes dramatically. “Don’t worry about it. We have staff. And by staff, I mean Roombas. You can take them off if it makes you feel better. You don’t have to, though.”

Steve was probably gaping as Tony led him through the house, pointing out which rooms were to be used for art spaces, which for music. The ballrooms (yes, plural) would be part of the dance school, of course. A closed-off staircase was marked PRIVATE - that was where Tony lived. Toward the back of the building were a few nondescript offices for administrative staff and a communal kitchen.

“You know, I think we still have a few spots open for artists in residence,” Tony mentioned as they made their way across the massive indoor courtyard, where koi jostled over one another in the hopes that they were going to be fed. He said it in passing, as if it wasn’t exactly the sort of thing Steve dreamed of - “Standard sort of teaching/working gig - you get to use the space, in return you teach some art classes a few days a week. A bit of a stipend, though it’s not huge. I’ll get you in touch with Darcy, she’s in charge of these things. They don’t actually let me make any decisions around here,” he added with a wink toward Steve.

Steve was so busy trying to figure out if Tony Stark was flirting with him ( _Tony Stark! Flirting! With him!_ ) that he definitely did not see the bronze statue he walked into.

Luckily Tony’s reflexes were quicker than Steve’s, because there was no way in hell Steve would ever have been able to pay off those damages.

“Shit! Sorry! Oh my god.” Steve held out a hand to offer help, but Tony was already propping the statue back onto its pedestal. “Sorry. It’s… kind of a problem. I can be a bit clumsy. Bucky says it’s cuz I’m too busy taking in what’s around me to notice what’s in front of me. And he says I grew too big for my dimensions.”

Tony chuckled, shaking his head in what Steve decided was probably (hopefully) amusement. “Remind me to get these things attached to their pedestals a bit more sturdily if we’re gonna have kids in here. Or if you’re planning on coming back. For what it’s worth, I think your dimensions are just fine.”

Yep, that was definitely flirting. Steve swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I was hoping to. Come back.”

Tony flashed him a broad grin. “Good. Hey, I haven’t had dinner yet. You hungry?”

“Starving,” Steve replied honestly. 

***

Three hours and one of the best egg salad sandwiches Steve had ever had later, he was nestled in a high-backed armchair in Tony Stark’s library. The feeling of being an intruder, of being hopelessly out of place in Tony Stark’s personal area in the Stark Mansion, had worn off, replaced by a comfortable fullness in his belly and the easy companionship of his new acquaintance. Steve’s sketchbook was on his lap, and he’d been sketching idly as Tony played, mostly studies of the way Tony’s fingers stretched over the strings, the lines of the fabric of his shirt pulled across his back as he drew the bow, the shadows cast on his face by the sparse light of the table lamp. He’d stopped sketching a while ago, though, lulled into a peaceful ease by the music, and it was comfortable: the chair, the room, the song, this alluring man he’d just met …

***

Steve woke with a start. He blinked a few times, willing his eyes to adjust, to tell him where the fuck he was.

It was his brain that provided the answer first: He was still at Tony Stark’s house - at the Carbonell Arts Center. That was when his eyes, painfully dry from having left his contacts in too long, filled in the rest. The room was empty. His sketchbook lay on the coffee table a few feet away; he couldn’t remember putting it there. 

There was a blanket tucked up over him.

Steve blinked again.

Had he fallen asleep in Tony Stark’s armchair?

Had Tony Stark tucked him in?

Steve wasn’t sure which part of this was the most surreal.

Probably the part where he’d gone from _homeless_ to _crashing on Tony Stark’s armchair_.

Steve scrubbed a hand across his face, pushed his hair back (only to have it flop into his eyes again) and untangled himself from the blanket. He made his way down the hall toward the kitchen, vaguely remembering the way from his tour the evening before. As expected, he found Tony leaning against the counter, clutching a mug of coffee.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Tony greeted with a playful smirk. He looked freshly showered, his hair still glistening with dampness but sticking out at all angles as if he’d just toweled it off and not bothered with a comb. He wore a pair of slacks and a pale pink button-down, a dark gray vest over it, unbuttoned.

It was almost unfair that someone could look so sexy with so obvious little effort.

“Hi,” Steve croaked.

Tony smiled at the sound and turned to grab a mug from the cabinet. He held it up by way of asking if Steve wanted any coffee; Steve nodded.

“Sorry about … the sleeping thing,” Steve stammered, then winced at his phrasing. “I guess I musta been really tired.”

Tony waved a hand as if to dismiss the apology as he pushed the steaming mug of coffee toward Steve. “Don’t worry about it. Figured you could use the rest. I’m guessing you don’t have, like a cat or a wife you needed to hurry home to?”

Steve chuckled. “Nah. More of a dog person. And, uh, not the wife-having kind of guy.”

He could have sworn Tony’s brow twitched upward a bit at his confession. Maybe he was reading into it, though - even after all these years, he still felt that prick of anxiety whenever he told anyone he was gay. 

“Not that I have those either. A dog, I mean, or a not-wife. No pets, no partner. Just me and my sketchbook,” he added unnecessarily.

Tony was chuckling quietly behind his coffee mug. Well, at least Steve’s stupid inability to talk to attractive people was a source of amusement.

“Well listen,” Tony switched gears suddenly, pushing himself off the counter and depositing his mug in the sink, “I’ve got a plane to catch - I’m doing a series with the Prague Symphony Orchestra, so I’ll be out of town for a week or so. But feel free to take your time and show yourself out. There’s some muffins and stuff in the fridge, towels in the bathroom if you want to grab a shower, whatever. Jarvis will be by later to tidy up and the doors lock automatically, so don’t worry about that or anything.”

“Oh, okay,” Steve replied, too caught off-guard by the sudden shift from casual teasing to all-business to come up with anything better.

Tony had just stepped around the counter on his way toward the door and stopped, mere inches from Steve. He reached out as if to touch Steve’s hand but pulled away. 

Steve followed the line of his arm up and caught Tony’s gaze. There was a vulnerability there that hadn’t been there before; a lingering question. Before Steve could try and parse it further, Tony was closing the gap between them, his tongue darting out quickly to wet his lips before he was kissing Steve, soft, chaste, short. Way too short.

Steve stumbled as he tried to follow the movement as Tony pulled away, but Tony was already in the doorway.

“Take care of yourself, Steve. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Have a good trip,” Steve just barely managed to get out as Tony disappeared down the hall.

He finished his coffee in a stupor, listened as the door of the house - mansion - closed with a click. It felt like a vacuum, like everything had been sucked out of the building as Tony left and Steve was left gasping, clutching his chest as he tried to breathe.

_What the fuck had just happened?_

He had to get out of there. He needed air. He needed … something.

He stumbled to the sink, washed his mug and, for good measure, Tony’s, left them next to the sink to dry. It was autopilot that got him through showering (because as desperate as he was to get out of there, he wasn’t about to pass up a free shower), getting dressed, gathering his bag and leaving.

Only after the door had clicked shut did he realize that his sketchbook was still on the coffee table.

“Fuck!” he swore under his breath, balling his fist and punching lightly at the air. He sighed and turned to leave, added _new sketchbook_ to the mental list of things he needed to get (but couldn’t really afford).

***

“Hi there!” a chipper female voice on the other end of the line greeted. 

Steve had had to dive across the pile of unfolded laundry his roommate had left on their couch to reach his phone, and after a long night working at the gym the evening before, he was feeling anything but chipper that morning.

“Is this Steve Rogers?” the voice asked.

“Uh, yes?” Steve tried to think who might be calling, but he’d given his number out to so many people - from galleries and art collectors to potential roommates and people looking for private training sessions at the gym - that there was no way to know. Just to be safe, he sat up a little straighter, ran his hand through his hair as if that might help him sound more professional, and repeated, “I am Steve Rogers.”

“Oh, great!” the voice exclaimed. “I’m Darcy Lewis. I’m the Artist Coordinator at the Carbonell Arts Center.”

Steve shot up off the couch, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears. “Hi,” he managed.

“We found your sketchbook,” Darcy said, and Steve felt himself wither again, back to his slouched position, and he dropped back onto the couch. No need to be on edge if they were just calling about his lost item. That was confirmed when Darcy added, “I’m here Mondays through Fridays from around nine thirty to six, usually, if you’d like to come by to pick it up.” 

“Oh.” Well, at least he might be able to get it back. He’d gotten a replacement in the two weeks that had gone by since he’d been at Tony’s, but that sketchbook had had a few nice studies in it that he’d wanted to use for paintings. He tried to hide the disappointment in his voice when he added, “Yeah, that would be great, thanks.”

“How’s tomorrow at 12:45?”

It seemed odd, to schedule such a specific time for something so simple as picking up a notebook - surely Steve could just swing by and someone could hand it over? - but it wasn’t like he had anything better to do, and yeah, maybe he was secretly hoping to run into a certain founder of the arts center while he was there, so he confirmed.

“Great, see you then!” Darcy said cheerily just before the line went dead.

Steve looked at his phone as if it held the explanation for what the fuck that had been. How did she even get his number? How did she know it was his sketchbook? It wasn’t like he’d written his name and number in it, and the only person who knew who the sketchbook belonged to was Tony.

God, he hoped Tony hadn’t looked inside that sketchbook - there had been quite a few sketches of Tony in there from that evening. Actually, he kind of hoped _no one_ had looked in it - he’d also done a number of nude studies - but that was probably too much to ask for if they’d somehow managed to track him down as its owner.

***

Darcy Lewis, it turned out, was possibly the most enthusiastic person Steve had ever met. She was _loud_ and bubbly, she talked a mile a minute, she took shit from no one, and Steve loved her.

Her face had lit up when he’d tapped on the frame of the open door to her office, having been shown the way by an elderly gentleman named Jarvis. 

Steve had been sweating when he’d rung the bell at the arts center, partially because it was July in New York City so that was par for the course, but mostly because he was anxious. Would Tony be there? Would Tony acknowledge him? Surely if Darcy had been able to contact Steve, Tony could have as well, but Tony _hadn’t_ called. They’d left things open, a kind of unspoken “never to be seen again” agreement between them. Steve still couldn’t figure out why Tony had kissed him, but it certainly hadn’t been the opener to any grand romance, given Tony’s disappearing act right afterward.

“It’s so great to meet you!”

Darcy’s voice pulled Steve out of his train of thought, which was probably for the best. Before Steve had a chance to acknowledge her statement, she’d already embarked on a monologue about how much she enjoyed his sketchbook, even though she was sorry for looking in it, she was well aware that sketchbooks were a personal matter, but it had been found and that had been the only way to track down who it had belonged to, though it was for the best anyway since that was why they were here now, the two of them, because “I’d like to invite you to apply.”

“Excuse me?” Steve asked, not sure he’d heard her correctly.

“Our artist-in-residence program,” Darcy stated matter-of-factly. As if it were obvious. “We still have a few spots remaining to be filled. I’d like to invite you to apply.” 

At Steve’s silence, she added, “If you’re interested.”

That was when Steve snapped to. “Yes, of course! Yes, I am very interested. I, um, I’ll be sure to apply.”

A grin spread across Darcy’s face. “Great!” She ducked behind her desk, bent down to shuffle through a drawer. “I have the application requirements here somewhere.” She rifled around a bit more before slamming the drawer shut. “Fuck it, can I just email it?”

Steve chuckled. “Yeah, of course.”

Darcy gave him a tour of the arts center - Steve didn’t dare say he’d already seen it with Tony. Tony, who was nowhere to be seen. Steve wanted to say he wasn’t disappointed, but that would have been a lie. Regardless about his silly crush on its founder, Steve was giddy at the thought of having a chance to work with the Carbonell Arts Center - while it might be new, it had already garnered significant media attention, and given Tony’s high-profile contacts, it was fairly certain that being deemed good enough to work here would open quite a few doors in the arts world.

***

The summer seemed to fly by as Steve settled into his routine - his mornings were spent making art, his afternoons teaching art, some evenings working at the gym, the others painting. He practically lived at the Carbonell Arts Center, which was for the best, since his new roommate Clint was a bit of a tire-fire of a guy. Nice, almost too nice for this world, but a trainwreck. Steve’s residency was great. The pay was, well, not much, but he had a great space to paint in, plus they provided supplies, so his output had gone through the roof, and there was a show scheduled for the end of the summer. The lessons he taught were really rewarding, for the most part, and watching young people be inspired by art had, in turn, inspired him further. 

Steve had never been so busy, or so happy in his work.

Three weeks had gone by before he actually ran into Tony again, despite all that time spent at the center. He’d been in the middle of a lesson - a painting class for high school students - and he’d been bent over Miles’ easel, pointing out an area that needed a bit more tweaking, when he’d had that odd sensation of being watched. He turned to see Tony in the open doorway, leaning against the frame casually (‘as if he owned the place,’ one might say, which would be accurate, since Tony did, in fact, own the place), his arms folded across his chest.

“Oh look, our figure model is here,” Steve announced to the class with a grin. He watched as Tony’s face blanked when fifteen heads turned towards him. “Come on in, you can get undressed behind that cabinet, I’ll get out a stool for you.”

Tony schooled his expression again as he pushed himself off the doorframe and sauntered across the room towards Steve. One hand went up to the buttons on his shirt, and he started to undo the top one. “Great, let’s get started.”

He walked toward Steve, his eyes dark, his face serious, as he undid one, two, three buttons before stopping just in front of Steve.

 _It’s a good thing he’s wearing an undershirt,_ Steve’s brain helpfully supplied.

Steve could feel the blood rushing through his ears, his heart pounding in his chest as Tony called his bluff, raised him. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“So,” Tony said, deadpan. “I was promised a stool.”

Somewhere behind him, one of the students started laughing, then another, and soon the whole room was cracking up. Steve felt himself relax, the corner of his mouth curling up in a smile as he told Tony, “We don’t have any stools. I’m told they weren’t in the budget.”

Tony let out an amused huff, and like that, he turned from Steve, addressed the rest of the room. “Sooo, this is Painting Techniques 2, huh?”

He seemed to consider Miles’ painting for a moment, then Jean’s. “Good stuff,” he stated, underlining his approval with a quick nod of his head as his eyes flicked back to Steve. 

Steve felt himself suck in a breath at the gaze.

“Well, I’ll let you all get back to it. Come find me when you’re done?”

Tony said it so casually, with such certainty, that it seemed more like an order than a question but for the slight intonation at the end of the word. As if Steve hadn’t spent hours thinking about the next time he would finally see Tony again, as if Steve hadn’t been craning his neck around the corner whenever he was at the arts center, hoping to run into Tony. Before Steve could even reply, Tony had already sauntered out of the room again.

“Oooh, Teach has a crush,” a voice at the back of the room singsonged, pulling Steve out of his thoughts.

“Quiet, Barnell, or it’ll be nothing but shading exercises and still-lifes of doilies for you.”

There was a collective _ooooooh_ from the rest of the class, and Steve palmed his face before pasting his Serious Teacher Face back on and raising his eyebrow, arms folded across his chest, until the students grudgingly turned back to their paintings.

It was one of Steve’s favorite classes, partially because he saw himself in so many of the students - all from a disadvantaged home environment, most of them learning painting techniques for the first time - and partially because they were just a fun group and he could cover a lot more with them than the middle school group on Tuesdays, but on that day class just seemed to drag on. It was impossible to focus on someone else’s brushwork when all he could think about was the intensity of Tony’s gaze as he’d thumbed open his shirt button, the way Tony’s lips had brushed against his what felt like an eternity ago, the lines of Tony’s lean figure as he’d leaned against the door.

Steve waited with a forced calmness as the last of his students finished packing up their paints and filed out of the room.

“See you next week!” he called after Kamala and Lunella as they shuffled down the hall, and he forced himself to breathe in and out five times before he headed down the hall in the opposite direction to where the music studios were.

He stopped short of the door to the farthest studio, his hand hovering over the door handle. He could just make out the sound of Tony’s violin - a slow piece, pensive - and he could picture in his head the way Tony’s bow would draw across the strings ever so lightly, the way Tony’s brow would be pinched in concentration. 

Steve lingered for a bit, revelling in the moment, before finally pushing the door open quietly and slipping inside.

He sucked in a breath when he laid eyes on Tony - _yup, just like he’d imagined_. There was a chair just a few feet away, and he pulled his ever-present sketchbook out of his back pocket before settling into it. The fern tickled the back of his neck where the leaves brushed over it, but Steve was too wrapped up to let it bother him. He worked quickly, jotting down the lines of Tony’s shoulders, his arms, his bow. The little curls of his hair, the soft folds of his shirt.

It was beautiful.

The song ended, and Steve looked up at the sudden silence to catch Tony glancing over to him. A wan smile curled the corners of Tony’s mouth before he tucked his violin under his chin again and picked up another song. This one was more upbeat, a light playfulness to it that had Steve smiling to himself as he turned back to his sketching.

It was late by the time Tony set down his instrument. 

“So, seems like you’re settling in nicely here,” he said to Steve as he packed away his violin.

It took Steve a moment - too long - to realize that Tony meant at his artist residency, and not that Tony was trying to tell him that he was overstaying his welcome that evening. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah, it’s great. I love it. The kids are great, the studio’s great, I really like the teaching. Thanks for this opportunity.”

Tony let out a quiet chuckle and looked up at Steve through the hair curling into his face. “Don’t thank me. This isn’t a job interview, Steve, and I was barely involved. All I did was tell Jarvis who the notebook belonged to that he found in my living room. I wasn’t even in the country when Darcy hired you. Didn’t find out till I got back.”

Well that was one lingering question answered. Steve had often wondered about that - whether Tony had been the one to suggest his name. Whether him getting the residency was at all tied to that kiss in the kitchen. If it wasn’t, well - there was hope, then. Maybe.

“Good to know,” Steve said, unsure what else to say. Instead, he switched gears. “How was your trip? You must be beat?”

Tony brushed off the question with a weak shrug. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. You want a drink or something?” Tony was already halfway out the door, so Steve gathered his things and hurried after him. Tony continued as he made his way up the stairs, “Trip was good, though. They’re a good bunch, that orchestra. ‘M heading out again with them in a few weeks.”

Steve watched as Tony reached up to get two wine glasses once they were in his kitchen. The glasses were the kind with a ridiculously wide bowl that screamed “expensive!”, and Tony poured undoubtedly equally pricey red wine into them. It was probably too late to mention he wasn’t much of a wine-drinker, Steve concluded, so he took the glass that was offered to him and raised it to his lips hesitantly.

“Thanks,” he said. “Cheers.”

Tony lifted his glass towards Steve in a tiny salute before taking a sip, the muscles of his throat working as he swallowed.

 _Stop it, Rogers,_ the voice in his head warned. He’s practically your boss.

And damn, that voice was right. It was wrong, whatever he was feeling for Tony. He was his boss, essentially - even if he claimed not to have been involved in Steve’s hiring, he did _own the place_. Never mind the fact that Tony was a renowned musician who played with the best orchestras in the world and lived in a mansion and Steve was teetering on the brink of homelessness and often lived off rice the last few days before his paycheck came in.

And here they were, drinking wine that was probably well over two hundred dollars a bottle on a _Wednesday_ as if it was just like any day.

Steve sighed into his glass as he took a sip, let the liquid wash down his throat as he resolved to set aside whatever he thought he was feeling. He chalked the slight bitter taste up to the fact that he was more a beer guy.

Across the kitchen island, Tony was gesticulating as he recounted his adventures with some of the strings section in Geneva and a particularly wild evening in Buenos Aires. It sounded like a fun time, but it also cemented in Steve’s mind the huge gap between Tony’s life and Steve’s - the only countries other than the US that Steve had ever been to were Iraq when he’d been deployed there and Germany for a few weeks in the military hospital after that.

***

It became a bit of a habit: Wednesday evenings spent together in the studio, Steve sketching or painting while Tony practiced. Sometimes they’d order in and watch TV or just chat, sometimes they’d cook together. Steve tried his hardest to ignore the way it tugged at his heartstrings, how comfortable and _right_ it felt to be with Tony, even if he failed miserably at it most of the time. As mismatched as they were, Steve felt more complete when he was with Tony. 

Even if he couldn’t be _with_ Tony, he was going to enjoy his time with Tony.

It was a Wednesday like any other when everything got turned upside down. Steve said goodbye to his high-schoolers, stopped by Darcy’s office for a “quick chat” that ended up lasting almost an hour until she finally had to go home, then headed toward the studio where Tony liked to practice. It was unusual for Tony not to stop in and say hi during Steve’s lesson, but Steve thought nothing of it as he pushed open the door to Tony’s studio.

It was empty.

Maybe he was having some dinner, Steve guessed, so he closed the door again and jogged up the stairs to Tony’s personal living area. It was off limits for most people and closed off by a security door, but Tony had given Steve an access code early on in their friendship, and Steve punched it in quickly.

It was quiet there as well. Eerily quiet. Tony was usually well through his warm-up routine by now and on to whatever he was practicing that day. But now there wasn’t a sound to be heard, not even the rustle of a sandwich bag or the refrigerator being opened.

 _CRASH_ A loud clattering tore through the house, broken glass and a heavy thud, almost sending Steve sprawling as he flinched at the sudden noise. 

Steve took off toward its source - the living room - half expecting to find an intruder climbing through a broken window.

What he found was so much worse.

Tony lay motionless in the center of the room, broken glass from his shattered coffee table surrounding him. His right hand was on his chest, as if he’d been clutching at his heart.

“Tony!” Steve shouted as he rushed over. 

There was no response.

Steve was pretty sure his own heart had stopped as he reached up to Tony’s throat, feeling for a pulse.

“Oh thank god,” he said out loud when he found it, weak but _there_.

He fished in his pocket for his phone, called 911, fought back the surge of tears that wanted desperately to flood him as he spoke to the dispatcher.

“Tony,” he cried, cradling the limp body in his arms as he waited. “Don’t leave me, Tony. I need you. Please, I’m begging you, Tony. Wake up now.”

Tony didn’t wake up. His breathing continued, though, shallowly, and his eyelids flickered every so often as Steve waited for the ambulance to arrive, cradling Tony carefully.

***

Steve was made to wait out in the waiting area while Tony was rushed into the ER, and he must have walked at least three miles pacing back and forth, back and forth, until a nurse finally came out and said he could go see Tony. 

Tony, who lay on his hospital bed, a thin blanket pulled up high to just under his chin. Wires ran out from under the blanket, leading to a heart rate monitor that blinked ominously. At least it wasn’t beeping.

Tony’s gaze was fixed on something outside, not even turning his gaze from the window when Steve entered.

Steve felt his heart hammering in his chest, and he tried to swallow down the massive lump in his throat. It didn’t help.

“Tony?” he finally asked the room. 

Tony turned his head, looking as if he was only now realizing Steve was in the room. “Steve,” he breathed, the corners of his mouth turning up weakly. “They tell me you were the one who found me, who brought me here?”

Steve nodded. “I was.”

“Thank you. Lord knows how long I’d’ve been lying there if you hadn’t been there. If you hadn’t found me. Doc says I’m lucky you did. Might not have…” He let the sentence trail off, but it didn’t need to be said aloud for Steve to understand what he meant.

His stomach roiled at the thought of it.

“Steve?” Tony’s voice pulled Steve back out of his thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“If I weren’t your boss …” Tony started, then stopped. He was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on that spot off in the distance until his eyes snapped up and met Steve’s. He let out a quiet huff of laughter, his emotions shuttered behind a smiling mask. “You know, it’s funny. The reason I started the arts center, the reason I threw away everything my father had ever touched, was because I wanted to finally do something that would make _me_ happy. That was it. Find happiness in whatever time that remains for me.”

He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. 

“And now that’s what’s coming between me and happiness.”

Steve felt his own heart rate pick up. “Tony, what are you … ?”

“Come here,” Tony said, and he held out a hand for Steve. Steve took it, cardled it in his own as he settled on the edge of the bed, careful not to pull out any of the cables Tony was hooked up to. “I just- I like you, Steve. I want you to know that. I also want you to know that I had no involvement in the selection process for the residencies, and I have no authority over who comes and goes either, so whatever you say won’t be held against you.”

“Are you reading me my Miranda rights?” Steve said with a chuckle.

“I don’t know, should I be?”

Steve brushed his thumb over the back of Tony’s hand, which he was still holding. “I like you too, Tony. Have from the moment I met you. You’re brilliant, and kind, and generous, and beautiful-” Tony rolled his eyes, but Steve continued, “and you make really good sandwiches.” 

That earned him a chuckle from Tony. 

“Good to know I have _some_ skills.”

“You have loads of skills.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

Steve rolled his eyes at Tony. “Like fishing for compliments. That’s a skill you’re great at.”

Tony shoved at Steve with his knee. “Get off my bed, you unappreciative oaf,” Tony huffed, though there was an undeniable tone of amusement in his voice and he still hadn’t let go of Steve’s hand.

The moment passed, and silence took hold. After a long minute, Tony cleared his throat quietly. The playful edge was gone from his voice, replaced with seriousness, when he said, “Steve. I need - I should - I don’t know how much the doctors told you, but you should know. If this -” his eyes flicked down to where their hands were still entwined “-if anything should come of this, before it does, you should know.” He looked up to catch Steve’s gaze, his eyes searching, as if he were trying to look into Steve’s mind.

“I’m dying, Steve.”

The world seemed to tilt, everything screeching to a halt and fading out of existence, leaving only Tony and Steve and their hands on each other’s. Steve felt like he was about to be sick.

“You’re- what?” Steve managed to get out after what felt like three years.

“It’s my heart. Dysplastic aortic valve. Born with it. Only found out about it a few years ago, kind of by accident, you could say. Loads of people have it, most never know. They just … keel over one day. Lucky me, huh? I get to live out my days, knowing I’ll probably never make it to seventy. Don’t give me that look, Rogers. I mean, we’re all dying at some point, after all. It’s kind of an inevitable fact of life - no one gets out alive. I just … have an earlier expiration date.” 

Tony was babbling. Steve could see it in his eyes - he was just talking for fear of what Steve might say if (when) he finally stopped talking. 

Thing was, Steve had no idea what to say. What are you supposed to say when you find out the person you kind-of-maybe-probably are in love with is _dying_?

He opted for the truth.

“Tony,” he started, quietly, and Tony immediately ended his monologue about the inevitability of mortality to look up and meet his eyes. Steve gave his hand a light squeeze and started over. “Tony, I think I’m in love with you. Well, I think I _am_ in love with you, I’ve just been hiding that from myself because I didn’t think you would ever want someone like me. But if- if you do, then I would love to give this a go. And if we have ten years together or twenty or maybe only eight months - I’ll take what I can get. I just don’t want to waste any more time.”

A stray tear rolled down Steve’s cheek, and he could see moisture welling in Tony’s eyes as well.

“You really- me?”

Steve nodded, a quiet chuckle breaking through his tears. “I really. You.”

A smile cracked Tony’s lips. “Good. I love you too, Steve. And that thing you said about me not wanting someone like you, that’s- couldn’t be further off the mark, buddy. You- you make me want to be better, Steve. I look at you and I see the purpose of all this. Life, legacy, the arts center. I built that for people like you, Steve. I’m half as good as I am when I’m with you. And that’s the truth.”

It was Steve’s turn to smile, and he reached down to rub his thumb over Tony’s cheek. The stubble of Tony’s goatee scratched at his skin, and suddenly Steve wanted nothing more than to kiss this brilliant man, to hold him close.

“Tony, you invited me into your home when I had nothing. I know you said you had nothing to do with me getting the residency, but I would still have nothing if it weren’t for your arts center. You gave me a home, Tony.”

“Christ, Steve. You can’t just tell a guy things like that and then not kiss ‘im. C’mere.” Tony tugged at the hem of Steve’s shirt in an effort to get Steve to lean down to him. As he did, one of the cables in his heart rate monitor came unhooked and the machine started beeping menacingly.

Steve couldn’t help but chuckle as he quickly let go of Tony’s hand and stood to hook the cable up again. As he did, a nurse came running in. 

“You’re a troublemaker, aren’t you?” she said, a clear amused tone to her voice when she saw that the cable was hooked up again and Tony was not, in fact, going into cardiac arrest.

Steve felt himself blush. “It’s been said, once or twice.”

“I only met the guy because he was loitering outside my house,” Tony teased. It was good to see him smiling. “Captain of the troublemakers, this one.”

The nurse shook her finger at Steve faux-menacingly. “Go easy on this one. He needs rest.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said with a quick nod.

“At ease, soldier,” she chuckled as she turned to leave again.

Steve turned to Tony again, who still wore that fond smile that was making Steve’s heart sing. “Well, you heard the nice nurse. You rest up, and when you are ready to come home, you’re going to get a thorough kissing. Until then,” Steve crossed the space to Tony’s bed again and leaned down until their noses were almost touching, “this will have to do.”

Tony’s lips were rough, cracked from the dry air of the hospital, but his kiss was soft, his tongue darting out ever so quickly to lick at Steve’s lower lip, and the little hum he let out as their lips touched was somehow everything Steve needed. All the turmoil of the day seemed nearly forgotten in that one precious moment.

Steve didn’t want to push it, though, so he pulled back again, pressed a soft kiss to Tony’s forehead before standing up straight again. “I wish I didn’t have to go, but visiting hours are limited and I’ve got a class to teach soon.”

Disappointment flickered in Tony’s eyes, but it faded again when Steve added, “I’ll be back this evening, though.” 

“Yeah, alright,” Tony acknowledged. “Say hi to the kids for me.”

“Will do.”

Steve was almost at the door when Tony spoke again. “I love you, Steve.”

Steve turned to look at Tony. He really needed to get going, and he was slightly worried about suffering the nurse’s wrath, but he decided he was willing to chance it as he crossed the room for one last kiss. 

“Love you too,” he mumbled against Tony’s lips.


End file.
